


La Douleur Exquise

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunk John, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock being a self sacrificing little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its not that Sherlock doesn’t want John, because he quite clearly does. The lingering stares, the long, drawn out moments of contact, they all seep with attraction.  Sherlock wants John more than he’s ever wanted anything, anyone else. It’s just that he, in this particular respect, attempts to apply the morals fitting for a love tied to a married man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Douleur Exquise

Its not that Sherlock doesn’t want John, because he quite clearly does. The lingering stares, the long, drawn out moments of contact, they all seep with attraction. Sherlock wants John more than he’s ever wanted anything, anyone else. It’s just that he, in this particular respect, attempts to apply the morals fitting for a love tied to a married man.   
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That makes it all the harder when John comes back to 221B, the dance with ghosts made merry by wine, and Sherlock is waiting.   
“S’prise” John attempts at the doorframe.  
“Articulate as ever John, but if you don’t think I know the exact pattern and acoustics of your footsteps by now then you clearly lack any appreciation for my methods”. Sherlock drawls.  
“No, no. Shhhh. I know you.” Replies John, swaying over.  
“Had a good night out then?”  
Rather than respond, John joins Sherlock on the couch, his own designated chair having been mysteriously absent for many months. He seems to gravitate towards Sherlock with a certain inevitability.   
“I thought... Now listen this is important”, John holds Sherlock’s face urgently, “I need you to know. ”  
Sherlock can see little but the glint of the wedding band John designated to wear around his neck. (‘Practical’ Sherlock had commented approvingly’).   
Next Sherlock can see nothing at all, as John has held their mouths to meet in a clumsy approximation of a chaste kiss.  
Sherlock freezes.   
What.  
What is the correct etiquette for this? Why, God why, did nobody ever tell him ‘You’re going to love a man at some point, who offers himself to you, and you will have to turn him away”. He needed time.   
The only thought circulating his mind was ‘Not like this. No. Not like this’  
His carnal yearning and untouched skin, however, freed his uncharted desire, and this moment, captured, seemed to be a lesson in cartography. He kissed John back.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Every action since was an urgent prayer to John. ‘Stay, stay’ he chanted rhythmically when he tore off their clothes. His haste was a waterfall to John’s drunken stream and he was unforgivable. When John fucked him he swore he could feel them converging, a wordless pact forged in passion that Sherlock could only dream to keep, a souvenir. He struggled to contain the three words as they lapped against his tongue. He knew that this moment would be etched into his brain, graffitied on every wall of his mind palace. Of not too far, just far enough. Much later, when he is supposed to be sleeping, he hears John whisper into his back “Love you”.  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
The sunlight seems to tell a different story. Sherlock wakes and everything becomes wrong again. Not like this. Not now. Not for John.  
John.  
John is still asleep next to Sherlock, and he feels another pang of jealousy that this woman is treated to the sight of John sleeping every morning. Has probably grown accustomed to it. Has the leisure, the nerve, to take this moment for granted.   
Sherlock’s breathing is heavy and erratic now, and the sheets feel too light over his skin.   
John wakes.   
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“Owww” John grunts as he rubs his eyes. “Jesus. What happened last night? How on earth did I get here?”   
Sherlock gave himself five seconds to breathe, to collect himself. He had been given a choice last night, and here was his chance to make a second.  
“You, in your typically insufferable fashion, stumbled in here complaining about how much harder it was for you to get home to Mary,” If Sherlock choked on those last words John did not detect it, “I let you sleep in my bed, for which you should be eternally grateful.”  
“Right. Thanks, then, Sherlock.”  
“You best be getting back to your house, John. I expect Mary will be worried.” Sherlock refrains from reattempting ‘home’, but cannot bear for John to notice.   
“Yes, yes. I suppose I should. Thanks again, I really didn’t mean to end up here.” He mutters, preparing to leave.  
Not until John is perched at the doorframe does Sherlock reply “Nor did I.”


End file.
